


Solve Us Like a Mystery

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry, Books, Bookseller!Draco, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, M/M, Mpreg, Mystery Stories, Near Death Experiences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Harry stops in at the bookstore where Draco works, they find a surprising shared interest in mysteries. Draco doesn't expect to see Harry again, and he definitely doesn't expect to become the subject of unexpected investigation that may endanger the life of his unborn child, and at the same time, may bring him the kind of happiness he never thought he'd have after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solve Us Like a Mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidheann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/gifts).



> Ah, my dear Eidheann. You have put with SO MUCH from me over this last year, and I value your opinion greatly. You have read hundreds of thousands of words for me, and you have slogged through things that aren't even your fandom for me. Because of you, my writing is better, and I am thankful. I hope you enjoy this small gift for you for the holiday! (And if your holiday is utterly crazed right now and you don't get to read it until things are quiet, that is cool too--TAKE YOUR TIME, hon!).
> 
> Many thanks to capitu for alpha reading and sneakily helping me get this plotted and rolling in the right direction. As always, I do not own the world or characters of Harry Potter, I just like to play here.

Draco’s feet hurt.

They don’t just hurt, they’re throbbing. Aching. Swollen, along with his ankles, to the point where if he could do it, he’d sit down and pull of his shoes and rub them.

He’s not sure he could actually _reach_ them right now.

He places his hands together, fingers pressing in against the nob of his lower back, and he arches backwards, trying to stretch himself out as his heavy belly presses forward against his robes. He has a list of stretches and exercises to do—things that will help his child settle into a more comfortable position—but as far as he’s concerned this infant is a stubborn brat who exists for nothing more than to make his father dreadfully uncomfortable.

There’s a small kick to his kidney, a nudge as the child rolls and he can see the ripple against his own flesh.

No, he’s lying. He loves this thing that’s inside of him, this child that is growing within his gut. Draco touches his belly with his hand, presses against the foot or hand that pushes back at him, and he smiles at the interaction.

“Malfoy?”

He jerks his hand away, placing it on the counter to catch his balance, his awkward body tilting with the abrupt motion. “Potter,” he says dryly, because of course, that is _exactly_ what his day needed to be better.

Potter stares at the mound his belly makes against his robes. Bright green eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open. Draco rolls his eyes at the sight.

“Surely you’ve seen pregnant people before,” he snarks. “I can’t think you’ve been entirely withdrawn from society. In fact, I’m quite shocked that you haven’t gotten the Weaslette pregnant already. Shouldn’t you have a wee one or two of your own by now?”

He’s surprised by the bright flush that rises to Potter’s skin, darkening to a warm rose as he takes a step back. “Not that my personal life is any of your business, but no, Ginny and I aren’t having kids just yet.”

Draco smiles tightly, trying to remain polite despite rising irritation. “Then do let’s agree to keep our noses out of each other’s personal business and you can try to raise your gaze from my stomach to my face, and we can do business despite my pregnancy. I assume you are here for a book? How precious; I wasn’t aware that you read.”

“It’s for Hermione.” Potter’s expression is rueful. “And I do read. It’s just that it’s mostly periodicals and articles for work, and I don’t have much time for pleasure. I like mysteries.”

Draco snorts. “It’s a pity that you don’t have time for pleasure. Your girlfriend must be terribly disappointed.”

“And how is your wife?” Potter’s gaze drifts back to Draco’s belly, before he seems to drag it back up to his face. “I didn’t know you were…” He waves his hand in the general direction of Draco’s body, sweeping head to toe.

“Pregnant?” Draco enjoys the way that Potter winces slightly. “It’s Astoria’s child, if you’re wondering. We agreed when we wed that one condition of our joining would be that I carry all children. In order to obtain an heir, one does what one must.” His tone is light, as if it means nothing that his body is stretched beyond recognition, likely ruined by this _parasite_ in his body.

He doesn’t hate it. He never would hate his child. But he does resent it, in some ways, and he wonders how women ever do this at all.

“I don’t read the Prophet,” Potter offers, and likely that’s the best explanation for his ignorance. Draco can’t imagine that his life is a topic of discussion in the Weasley household.

“What is it that you’re looking for?” Draco moves slowly out from behind the front desk, his gait ungainly, but then, he’s seven months pregnant and at times can hardly believe he’s walking at all. How he’ll survive the next two months is beyond him.

“Anything that Hermione would like.” Potter looks around, expression furrowed as he surveys the shelves. “And that she doesn’t have. Something esoteric, probably, but that she’d find entertaining.”

“Follow me.” Draco gestures, and Potter does indeed trail after him throughout the store, listening intently as Draco offers titles and explanations. In the end, Potter selects three books, each heavier than the last, and one slim volume of poetry with embedded magical meanings.

As Potter pays, Draco gives in to an odd impulse and pulls a dog-eared book from below the counter. He pushes it across, ignoring the expression of confusion he receives in return. “It’s the first of the Thistlethwaite mysteries by Priam Potherius. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Potter lifts the book, thumbing it open, flipping pages idly. “I didn’t know this store sold used books.”

“It doesn’t. That happens to be my own, personal copy.” Draco can’t say why he is bothering with this, trying to share something that he has loved, solely because Potter mentioned that he enjoys mysteries and has little time for reading for pleasure. “Take it or leave it, as you wish.”

“How much do I owe you?” Potter reaches back into his pocket, pausing only when Draco reaches across to touch his other hand that still holds the book.

“Nothing. Consider it a gift.”

Potter stands there, one hand in his pocket, the other on the book, for a long moment. He finally nods once and takes the book, tucking it into the bag with the others. “Thank you. I’ll let you know what I think of it.”

“No need,” Draco says, although he knows he is curious. And of course, he always enjoys a good discussion on the subject of his favorite books.

He settles back on his stool when Potter leaves, the forgotten aches returning to his feet and lower back as soon as he is alone. No matter, another customer will be along eventually for a distraction. That is why he has this job, after all, to escape the tedium of his house and of society. And perhaps, just a bit, for the autonomy of having something to call his own outside of the Greengrass household.

#

It is almost two weeks later when Potter returns, limping slightly and leaning on a cane as he makes his way slowly into the store. Draco notices him immediately, but cannot spare the time to intercept him as they are in the midst of a pre-holiday rush. He sees Joanne stop to talk to him and offer him coffee and assistance, but Potter waves her off and makes his way slowly to the mystery section.

Between patrons, Draco sends over a footstool with a wave of his wand. He purses his lips as Potter leans the cane against the bookcase, then slowly sinks onto the stool. Idiot, with far too much pride if he’s unwilling to actually _ask_ for help.

It takes more than a half hour before the early evening rush of patrons coming straight from work slides into the quiet of the dinner hour. Draco sends Joanne on her break and makes his way to the mystery aisle, where Potter still sits on the stool.

“What happened?” he asks, tone a shade too sharp.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Malfoy,” Potter replies, his smile shadowed. “Nothing terrible. Just a bit of curse damage. I’ll be off work until the new year while it heals, unfortunately.”

“I expect you’ll miss your job terribly.” Draco summons another stool and lowers himself carefully to sit on it. He is six weeks to due date, and the baby weighs heavily within him, pressing against kidneys, bladder, anything it can poke a foot into. He manages to find a way to sit that is almost comfortable, and balances there. “It must be terrible to take three weeks away from saving the world.”

“Actually, I hate my job.” Potter’s voice is low and quiet. “And I do realize that I am likely telling that to not only the person who _could_ do the most damage to me with the information, but who also might actually do so. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Yes, you are,” Draco retorts. “But that’s beside the point. I’m not likely to go running to the Prophet with the news that you despise being a part of the DMLE. I could say that and instead they’d choose to run a story on how we are having a torrid love affair and this is actually our love child. Sympathies would tilt towards Astoria, and my name would be ruined once more. You, of course, would be painted as the bewildered and obviously bewitched saviour of the wizarding world, not at all at fault for having shagged me into the carpet.”

Potter blinks, and Draco smirks at the sheer confusion. “How would they manage to spin that from you talking about me and my job?” Potter asks.

“In case you haven’t noticed, the Daily Prophet enjoys taking advantage of any opportunity to destroy my reputation,” Draco says. “No matter how hard I try to restore it.”

“How do you mean?”

His bewilderment seems honest, and Draco shakes his head. “It’s no matter. Suffice to say that the press and I do not have the best of relationships and if they can find a way to ensure that the Malfoy name remains buried, they will. It is simply a matter of life in pureblood society.”

There is more to the story, of course, and Draco can see the way Potter acknowledges that with a slight nod of his head. But he doesn’t pursue it, turning his attention instead to the shelves nearby. “I need something more to read,” he says. “I planned to get the next few in the Thistlethwaite series, and I hoped you might have other recommendations. I’m not familiar with magical authors. I tend to read mostly Muggle books.”

“Of course, I can help with that.” Draco leverages himself up from the stool and reaches for the shelf. He pulls off a few titles he has enjoyed. Potter lifts a hand before Draco can hand them to him.

“I trust your judgement. The next three of the series, please, plus any others you think I ought to read. I’ll come in again when I need more,” Potter says. Draco can see how awkwardly he stands as he pushes to his feet, and wonders exactly how bad the injury is, to put him out of work for almost a month during the holidays despite magical healing. 

“We can always send them by owl if you request as well.” Draco gathers together the books and carries them with him to the front of the store, not giving Potter the chance to try to carry them along with his cane. “Simply give us the shipping address—we can even deliver during the holidays, if you need something to read while with the Weasleys.”

Potter leans against the counter as he twists slightly to pull his money from his pocket. “I won’t be with the Weasleys for the holiday,” he says easily. “And I suspect I will need more to read before then. This is the first chance I’ve had to read something of my own choosing in years, and I intend to enjoy it.”

“It’s not your choosing,” Draco points out. “I chose it for you.”

“But I requested it,” Potter counters with a small grin. “And I am quite looking forward to seeing what you have selected.” He pushes the money across, waiting while Draco counts out his change and bags the books. “Take care of yourself, Malfoy. You look as if you ought to be taking a holiday yourself, soon.”

“I promise, I shan’t pop while you’re here trying to buy books,” Draco says dryly.

Potter’s nose wrinkles at the thought. “I don’t know what I’d do if you did. Other than Apparate you directly to St. Mungo’s. I hope you have a healer ready, because I can’t think your body’s built for that.”

“Magic does amazing things.” Draco keeps his voice calm, because Potter has managed to light upon the one thing that worries him: somehow, this child has to come _out_. “I’ll be perfectly fine. Not to mention that it’s nothing to fear before the holiday shopping season is over; I’m due in the middle of January.”

“That’s good to know.” Harry takes the bag from the counter and manages to stand steadily with it in one hand, and his cane in the other. He moves slowly until he gets the balance and cadence of his steps right. “I shall see you again, then. I’ll expect more recommendations when I come in.”

“Of course.” Draco summons the stool and sits on it as soon as Potter has left, his feet and back aching once more. Strangely enough, Potter’s words make him smile, giving him something to look forward to as Christmas shoppers bring their own brand of insanity. He finds himself already mentally cataloging what he might suggest next, and it distracts him throughout the rest of a busy evening.

#

“I need you to speak with your father.”

Draco looks and raises one eyebrow. “It’s lovely to see you, and such a surprise, my dear. What brings you to my work?”

Astoria’s lip curls, a small sniff as she looks at the store. “Necessity, I assure you, and nothing more. Your father is insufferable, and if you’ll recall the requirements of our marriage—”

“I do.” Draco cuts her off. “What point is he treading upon at this time?”

“Money.” Her smile is small and tight, lips drawn together in an ugly pursed bow. “Your allowance was due two days ago and has yet to be transferred from the Malfoy vaults. He must realize that this is not an optional occurrence. Your vaults are under entailment, and he will not benefit from your lack of funds.” She taps out a cigarette from her silver case, holding it at her lips without lighting it. “I wonder, sometimes, if our marriage is worth the aggravation.”

“You like the sex,” Draco says dryly.

Her laugh is a low snort. “I like the money. Sex is an occasional distraction, and your presence in my home is a necessary evil.”

A book slides across the counter, and Draco moves to take it without thinking, a small hand motion directing Astoria to move to one side so he can assist the customer. It takes him several moments to realize that the book in his hand is not at all new, and in fact, is his own. He raises his gaze to meet green eyes that stare back at him.

“I forgot to return it,” Potter says, one hand leaning on his cane. “When I was in to buy the other books, I meant to give this one back to you.”

“Exchanging books with Potter now, are we?” Astoria flicks the cigarette as if there were ash at the tip. “You’re coming up in the world, Draco dearest.”

“It isn’t like that.” Draco has no idea how to explain exactly what it _is_ , but whatever she is trying to imply has to be incorrect.

“Astoria.” Potter nods, his expression polite but body stiff.

“Whatever you may think, he will only use you for the good of your name, then destroy your reputation.” She lights the cigarette with a flick of her fingers, pointing it at Potter. “Everyone knows that the Malfoys are less than nothing now.”

“I’m not everyone.” Potter’s voice remains mild. “And he’s still a human being, Astoria, and one who has been pardoned for his part in the war. Considering I was held prisoner at his home, I’d think that if I can forgive him, others should be able to as well. Not to mention that you’re married to him.”

“Under duress, I assure you.” Astoria flicks ash on the counter, almost hitting the well-worn book that lies there. “I will see you at home, Draco, when you bother to arrive. Remember, that is _my_ son you are carrying. And speak to your father. If the situation is not remedied immediately, I shall be forced to alter my guest list for our annual gathering, and I know he wouldn’t want to be excluded. It’s so difficult for him to obtain any invitation to polite society these days, and I know your mother looks forward to those few events she is able to attend.”

His jaw is tight enough to ache but he forces a smile free. “Of course, dearest. I shall ensure that he deals with the situation promptly.”

“Thank you.” She turns to Potter and nods once. “Do not get involved,” she advises, before turning on her heel and existing the store in a sharp swish of her robes.

Potter leans agains the countertop, his cane set aside as he uses the counter to hold himself up instead. “Why does she think I’d get involved?”

“You do have a history of needing to save the world,” Draco reminds him dryly. “I can’t blame her for thinking that you might bother to go out of your way and try to save me as well. However, I do not need saving, so if you were considering going down that route, put it out of your mind. And thank you for the return of my book.”

Potter gives him an even look. “Call me Harry.” When Draco opens his mouth to protest, Potter raises one hand to forestall the objection. “People like her call me Potter. If we’re going to be…” His brows draw together in a faint frown. “I suppose I can’t exactly call it _friends_ , but we seem to be book exchange acquaintances at the very least. If we are going to be close acquaintances, then I should prefer it if you call me Harry.”

“Fine. Harry.” It tastes odd in Draco’s mouth, and he wonders what it would sound like if Potter—no, _Harry_ —were to use his given name instead of Malfoy. He could offer, he knows, or perhaps even demand that he did, but he hesitates, and the moment is lost. 

“I brought you these.” Harry produces a small stack of books, bound in paper, dog-eared and worn. “If you’ve read anything Muggle at all, you’ve probably read Agatha Christie, but I brought one along just in case you hadn’t. The others are more modern Muggle authors, and you may actually find those a bit more difficult to follow. I tried to choose ones that didn’t rely too closely on technology.” He hesitates, his hand in the air by his side. “How do you feel about spy novels?”

Draco shakes his head, not familiar with the term. “I’ve no idea.”

“Then try this. The Bond novels are classics, and I think you’ll enjoy them.”

“Have you already read the books you purchased and are back for more?” Draco accepts the book and glances through it, noting the size of the type and estimating how long it might take him to read the story. It occurs to him that they are slowly creating a basis of common ground, something they could talk about that doesn’t involve the war. The book is still cradled in his hand when he glances over at Harry.

It’s a mistake, Draco thinks, to look at him like this. Leaning on the counter, that infuriatingly messy hair stuck up and the fringe falling down across his eyes. But it doesn’t hide the bright green of those eyes, or the open, _friendly_ way that Harry is looking back at him.

“I haven’t finished them all yet,” he admits. “I just wanted to return the one book. And give you some others. I didn’t intend to barge in on your personal conversation but Astoria… she was treating you like you were no better than a slave.”

“To her, I am property.” Draco shrugs one shoulder, hand idly rubbing at the bulge of his back, cataloging the aches and pains that are his lot in life belonging, as he does, to Astoria’s world. “Life in the pureblood world is complicated, and as long as I am carrying her child, I cannot break the rules. You understand, of course.”

“Not at all,” Harry says plainly. “Particularly not when you look miserable. Would you care to go for… I was going to say a drink, but you’ll have to substitute in something you can have while pregnant. Pudding? You could meet me for something sweet after work.”

It’s tempting. It is almost disturbing exactly how tempting it is to accept the offer and sit at a table across from Harry for an hour or two, watching the way he enjoys his treacle tart. But Draco also knows it would be absolutely unacceptable. “Thank you, but no. I’m afraid I am otherwise engaged.”

“Another time then.” Harry slowly pushes himself back to standing upright, getting the cane beneath himself properly so that he can take a step back. “I’m certain I’ll be back soon for more to read.” He opens his mouth, and closes it again so quickly that Draco can almost see the way words were bitten back before they could be spoken. He wonders what they were, but Harry doesn’t say whatever it was that occurred to him.

“I’ll owl these back to you—” Draco stops talking when Harry’s hand falls over his.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get them back from you at some point, and it’s no rush.” He smiles slightly. “Besides, I know I’ll want to talk to you about them when you’ve read them. Plan for dinner then.”

“Dinner,” Draco echoes, and Harry seems to take that as a positive response.

“Good. I’m looking forward to hearing what you think of them.” Harry taps the cane on the floor once as he turns, then makes his slow way to the door. Draco stares after him, not entirely certain how the conversation changed in those last moments, and equally uncertain as to what he thinks about the results.

Dinner with Potter. Perhaps the world is ending. It seems the only explanation.

#

With not long before Christmas, the days slip by, trailing one into the other in a scattered blur until Draco realizes that a solid week has passed since Harry last came to the store. He wonders if it means that his injury is worse, or that perhaps things have changed and he has returned to work earlier than expected.

Or perhaps he remembered exactly why it was not right to befriend an ex-Death Eater and now makes himself scarce.

The correct thing to do would be to ignore the situation. The best thing to do would be to let it go, do absolutely nothing to remedy it.

Draco has never been known for making the best decisions. In fact, he managed to survive an entire war while piling mistake upon mistake, and compound that by creating hell for himself when he tried to fix it all with reparations.

He summons his owl and tries not to ponder his own actions too closely as he pens a quick note and attaches it to a parcel containing a single novel. He sends it off and tells himself to forget. After all, it is nearly the holidays, and everyone is busy.

The store closes late, and it is nearly midnight when Draco adjusts the sign on the front door to remind passersby that there is exactly one week until Christmas, then sets the locks to closed. He douses the lights and collects his cloak, pressing his fingers into the notch of his lower back as he stretches. It has been a long day on his swollen feet, and he wants nothing more than to go home and rest. He moves slowly and carefully through the dark store, his child turning in his gut, twisting uncomfortably.

He stops outside the employee door to check the locks one more time, listening as a church bell in the distance begins to chime the midnight hour. When he turns toward the street, a shadowy figure steps out from the wall, and Draco hurriedly stumbles inelegantly back, wand held at the ready.

“Draco, it’s me.”

Harry steps into the light carefully, fingers white where they grip the head of his cane. He seems to be moving even more slowly than Draco remembers, lines dark at the edges of his eyes.

“Why are you lurking in the alley, Potter?” Draco snaps. He keeps his wand in his shaking hand, glad for something to hold. His heart is racing, his body shivering, and the child within him turns somersaults in agitation.

“It’s Harry,” he reminds him gently. “And I was waiting for you. I didn’t want to disturb you while you were closing the store, or scare you by walking in after everyone had left.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t want to cause a heart attack,” Draco says dryly. “We won’t discuss the fact that you almost did. Do you intend to bring on premature labor? Because it becomes more possible by the moment. Do you think that we can, perhaps, conclude this conversation so that I might Apparate home to rest? It has been a long day.”

“Join me for a meal.” Harry offers the crook of his free elbow, as if he weren’t incapacitated and as if Draco were someone deserving of that level of respect. 

Draco ignores it, stepping cautiously past Harry, turning himself as he does so, careful not to nudge him off balance with his belly. “It’s late for a meal, and I’m tired.” Draco cannot keep the petulant tone from his voice. “Whatever this is, whatever _discussions_ you wish to have about our book exchanges, it can wait until morning. My shift begins at noon. If you insist, we can meet for lunch beforehand.”

“It can’t wait.” Harry’s expression is dead sober. He moves faster than Draco expects, although he can hear the cost of it in the tightness of Harry’s words, and the bitten off whimper of pain as he draws close, hand tight when it closes around Draco’s forearm. “And you can’t go home tonight. If I hadn’t been here…” 

When Harry’s voice trails off, Draco looks at him. They are both shadowed in the alley, and he can’t see what’s written in those green eyes. But he can hear how serious this is in the tone, and he purses his lips in response. “If you hadn’t been here, then _what_?”

“You might be dead.”

“And what a pity that would be for the world.” Draco’s words are dry and self-deprecating. He shakes loose of Harry’s hold, ignoring the chill that shudders through him at the thought. “I appreciate your concern, but if I recall, you are not working, and I am not your client, and that makes this conversation not only unusual but unneeded. I can care for myself. I do believe you should remember that I have no difficulty when it comes to dealing pain.”

“You haven’t cast an Unforgiveable since the early days of the war,” Harry says firmly. “The last was six months before the battle at Hogwarts. You could have tried to save yourself by being more firmly on Voldemort’s side, and you didn’t. You refused to endanger anyone else by your action. _Yes_ , I know the official records. _Yes_ , I am aware of your role in the war. Come with me tonight, Draco. Give me a chance to explain.”

Draco’s hands turn to fists by his side, tight enough that it aches, his knuckles white. “You _are_ working,” he hisses. “I _am_ your client. This is all a _job_.”

“Not exactly, but… yes.” Harry reaches for Draco, his hand hanging in mid-air when Draco pulls away again. “Let me Apparate us somewhere else to talk about this. You may not think your life is important, but I do, and right now I’d do anything I need to in order to save it. Even if that means putting you in a body bind and Apparating you away from here forcefully.”

“The baby—”

“Would be fine. But you can make this easier by coming with me.” Harry turns his hand, offering it palm up. Draco considers it for a long moment before sliding his hand over it, letting them join together. Harry pulls him in, both of them leaning heavily on each other as Harry twists them in place and the alley disappears.

#

“This isn’t what I expected.” Draco looks around at the Muggle restaurant, surprisingly busy despite the late hour. There is a plate of chocolate cake between them on the table, and Draco taps the china with his fork. “Using magic in a Muggle establishment. Shame on you, Auror Potter.”

“I’m allowed to break the rules at my discretion, and having this discussion in a magical place would be indiscreet. Taking you to my home, or following you to your own, would both be improper and likely make you anxious.” Harry gestures with his fork before poking at the cake, taking a bite for himself. “Therefore, a small illusion to make you appear female is simplest. No one will question it, the glamour is easy to maintain, and you don’t have to worry about trying to pretend you’re not pregnant.”

“Embarrassed to be sharing cake with a man, Potter?”

“It’s Harry.” He nudges the plate towards Draco. “And no, I’m not. Are you ready to listen to what I have to say without any self-deriding comments about the world being better off without you?”

Draco snorts, because of _course_ Harry misinterpreted what he had said. “I never said that. However, I do believe that much of Wizarding Britain would be happier if the Malfoy name were erased entirely, and it is patently obvious that pureblood society wants nothing more to do with me, other than for my galleons. If I were to be erased, as they desired, they would be at a loss. You know that as well as I.”

“Good, glad to know your sense of self-importance is still well and alive.” Harry gathers up another forkful. “Eat. Otherwise you’ll have me thinking I’ve chosen a terrible location for our date.”

“Is that what this is?” Draco tries not to think about how that makes his stomach flip.

“They think it is. So try to look like you’re enjoying it.”

It isn’t an answer, and it definitely isn’t the answer Draco was looking for. Perhaps hoping for, although he tries not to think about that either. Instead he tucks into the cake, focusing on the burst of sweet, bitter chocolate over his tongue, and the way his child seems to come awake in response. “So. Talk.”

“Astoria is going to kill you.” The words drop like small rocks onto the table between them. Harry sets down his fork and pushes away, expression closed. “This isn’t a job, Draco. I started looking into things after I saw her with you at the store. I knew about your part in the war before your trial, and I already knew about the contract you signed for your marriage as a result of that trial. I know what happens if you die. You’re right about pureblood society not caring about you, and there are a large number of reasons why that’s true. But she’s the one who wants you dead.”

Draco’s hand falls to his swollen stomach, the baby moving beneath his touch. “I’m carrying her child.”

“A child that would be viable if it were born prematurely.” Harry’s voice is low. “She doesn’t need you any more, Draco.”

“Why do you even believe this? Astoria wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Draco knows that isn’t true; he’s seen her with the house elves, and he’s seen her with others in pureblood society. Astoria would skewer anyone she thought needed it, as long as she didn’t have to dirty her own hands. “Who has she sent after me?”

Harry smiles thinly. “Marcus Flint and Adrian Pucey. Which, ironically, _is_ the case I was working on when I was injured. We’ve been investigating them for months for their ties to an underground Potions ring, bringing in illegal substances from South America and sending young Muggle girls and boys in payment. We learned that they have some creative family curses that aren’t in general use or knowledge, and that they are more than willing to turn those curses on anyone for a price. Astoria is Flint’s cousin; we’re not even sure he expects her to pay.”

After a few bites, Draco sets the fork down, pushing the plate away. “I don’t have much appetite,” he says, although the truth is that his stomach is churning. “It’s the baby, taking up all the space where my stomach ought to be.” He places his hands on the table, one atop the other to keep them from shaking as he tries to process what he has heard and to handle it rationally. “You said _we_ are not sure. Explain.”

Harry huffs a small sigh. “Ron and I have been working the case with Flint and Pucey for about six months now. We knew about Flint’s ties to Astoria, but we never thought you had anything to do with the Potions ring.”

“Thank Merlin for small miracles,” Draco says dryly. “I’m somehow shocked that you didn’t think I was in charge of the bloody thing.”

“Ron considered it for a while,” Harry admits. “But it didn’t seem to fit. We did, however, find out about your work in the bookstore, so I came in to buy—”

“To buy books for Hermione, of course.” Draco thinks back to that first meeting, to their discussions, and his lips press together. “So you were checking on me.”

“Yes.” Harry toys with his fork, but doesn’t eat. “We had an incident with Flint and Pucey not long after that. Flint hit me with a curse, and I was sent home after the hospital, and Ron’s work on the ring is suspended until after the holidays. They’re keeping tabs on things, but there’s no active case until I return. However, Ron noticed that Flint and Pucey were still doing _something_ even if it didn’t have to do with Potions. Then I ran into Astoria and saw how she treated you, and we started following the twists and turns until we uncovered the danger to you.”

“And if it just so happens to bring in the men you need for your case, all the better.” Draco can see how it works for Harry. Under the guise of protecting Draco he can capture Pucey and Flint, put them away, and clean up his case, all at the same time.

“That’s not it.” Harry looks at a point past Draco’s shoulder. He raises one hand, then points to his empty water glass before putting his hand down again. “I was… I _am_ … worried about you.” He falls silent for a moment when the server refills his water, waiting until he walks away.

“You can’t save me.” Draco knows better than anyone exactly what his situation is. Whether Astoria wants him alive or dead, he is nothing more than a source of income to her, and perhaps occasional sex. This plot doesn’t actually surprise him; it seems almost the expected outgrowth of what his life has become.

“I just did.” Harry has a flash of a grin that falls away just as quickly. “You can’t go home tonight, Draco.”

“Do you recall the terms of my trial?” Draco leans on the table, palms flat and belly uncomfortable as the edge presses into him. “You said you know my history well, and if that is true, then you will remember that I am _unable_ to spend a night outside of my own home without punishment. I was required to sign certain magical guarantees, among them my need to marry into a pureblood family of upstanding reputation and no ties to Voldemort, and my requirement to spend my time only at my home, outside gatherings as invited by my spouse, and my job.”

“Which is why you have a job,” Harry says easily. He doesn’t comment on the sound Draco makes; Draco isn’t used to anyone looking so closely at what he does, or _why_ he does it, not any more. Harry ignores when Draco pulls the plate to him, picking up his fork and eating the remains of the cake quickly. “Draco, I’m aware of your situation. I am also an Auror, and as this is related tangentially to a case, I can place you under my protection. In which case, it is up to me where you spend the night.”

“You always were obsessed with knowing where I was.” Draco tries to keep his tone dry, but he sees amusement rather than irritation in Harry’s expression.

“And now I’ll take you home with me. You don’t have to worry; Ron moved out ages ago. He and Hermione are making a go of it. Thought they ought to try living together first, to make sure that neither of them wants to kill the other each morning when they wake up.”

“What about at night before they go to bed?” Draco arches one eyebrow. From what he knows of the couple, he doubts any time of day is off-limits for fighting.

“Brilliantly loud sex keeps the arguments at bay,” Harry says, nose wrinkled in distaste. “I was glad when they decided to get their own flat.”

Both eyebrows slide up. “I see. And no, I do _not_ want to know which of them screams, thank you.” As disturbing as it is to be discussing Weasley’s sex life, it has lightened the tone of the conversation, drawn the focus away from Draco’s situation, and potentially impending death. He twists the focus back to Harry now, taking advantage of asking the one thing he wants to know. “And what of your Weasley?”

“My what?” Harry’s brow furrows, then his eyes go wide. “Ah, yeah, no. Ginny and I aren’t a thing anymore. We’ve um… we’ve had our problems over the last few years, and we decided we’d be better off going our separate ways.”

“Which is why you won’t be at the Weasleys for the holidays.”

“You remembered that?”

“I make it a point to remember any time a customer changes their owl address,” Draco replies easily, ignoring the way that one simple statement had caught at his curiosity until now. “I am sorry that you broke it off.”

“I’m not.” Harry’s expression is rueful. “She has her Quidditch career, and I’ve got the Aurors, and things were… complicated. She wanted more than I did, and at the same time, she wanted less. And I wanted something else entirely, so… it’s for the best. I’d be lying to say I don’t love her, and I don’t miss her, but we’re better as friends.”

Draco’s not sure he followed that entire explanation, but he can tease out the important parts and file the rest away to go over at his leisure, when it isn’t late and his brain isn’t muddled by exhaustion, baby brain, and sugar. “You are lucky,” he says frankly, and far more honestly than he intends. “You are able to live your life, and make your decisions. I commend you for that, and for…” his voice trails off. He can’t remember what he was going to say next, and the words are lost in a yawn. “I do believe I need to sleep.”

“Are you willing to trust me enough to come with me? You can sleep at mine.” Harry holds one hand out across the table, and Draco takes it without hesitation.

“If you were planning to kill me, you would have done it in the alley and left the body to be found,” he says. “This is too elaborate and ridiculous a plan, even for you, Potter.”

“Harry.”

“Harry,” Draco agrees. Their fingers curl together as Harry tugs and Draco follows him from the restaurant. The cold air makes him shiver as soon as he steps out, but Harry is there to wrap an arm around him, pulling him into the circle of his warmth before they once again twist in place and disappear.

#

Draco wakes into the haze of morning to find himself warm and wrapped in blankets, a body pressed against his back. His mind is still soft from sleep, but he remembers coming into the bedroom, stumbling slightly as he tried to navigate the strange space with balance broken by pregnancy. He had lain down and he only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but now morning light streams in around the curtains.

And Harry lies curled behind him, one hand pressed against Draco’s belly, his face buried in the crook of Draco’s neck.

Draco draws in a shuddering breath, holding it for a moment while he tries to figure out what to do next. The warmth and nearness of Harry’s body is oddly comforting, and there is a part of him that wants to sink back into it, enjoying the human contact. But at the same time, this is Harry Potter, and they are not _friends_. This is not something that Draco should be able to have.

The hand on his belly moves, fingers curling, brushing against the skin. His shirt has ridden up, baring him where Harry’s hand lies. Draco isn’t sure whether the touch is conscious until he feels the sharp inhalation that comes in time with fingers pressing flat and firm, and the low, shuddering exhalation afterwards.

“Sorry, Draco.” Harry rolls away, falling back against the bed, arms crossed on top of the blankets. “I just…” He falls silent, and Draco watches his profile, the way he stares at the ceiling and blinks quietly.

“Do you want children?” It takes effort for Draco to wrestle himself to sitting, and the child presses uncomfortably on is bladder. He suspects he has slept longer than usual, and he doesn’t know what to think of that. Even now, needing to piss as badly as he does, he doesn’t want to get out of the warmth of this bed.

Harry’s smile is rueful. “Yes. Ginny doesn’t, so that was one of the things that came between us. And I can’t blame her for that. She wants to fly, and she can’t do that while pregnant, and I had no idea a bloke could carry.”

“It’s not simple, and you have to have the right history and magical match with your wife to do so. It is generally something relegated to those who are extremely pure of blood.” It is the politest way Draco can think to say that he doubts that Harry, no matter how strong his magic, could carry a child. “It is also incredibly uncomfortable.”

“And dangerous?” Harry cranes his head to look at him.

“And dangerous,” Draco confirms. “The death rate of a wizard who carries a child is approximately one in one hundred. Birth is a critical time, but I am confident in the skills of my healer.” Although when he thinks of it, he wonders about that as well. After all, Astoria chose his healer. She has arranged for everything along the way, and with this new information, he wonders if she meant to kill him all along, or if it is a new development.

Harry’s mouth is twisted; Draco suspects that their minds are following similar tracks. “I can look into finding you a new healer,” he offers quietly, and Draco nods, accepting the offer for what it is.

He pushes his way out of bed, his body too insistent to ignore any longer. Harry points to a door at the end of the hall and Draco goes to take care of himself. By the time he returns, Harry is dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed. Without his glasses on, his fringe falls into his face and he looks somehow softer than Draco is used to. Harry’s gaze drops to Draco’s belly again, and Draco stops in place, just out of reach, somehow uncomfortable with the way Harry is looking at him.

He clears his throat. “If you’re done staring rudely at my girth, Potter…”

“Harry.”

Draco sighs when nothing else is said. “Fine. Harry. We are still _not_ friends.”

“We could be.” Harry pushes himself to stand slowly, shoving the fringe back from his face. One curl falls forward again just as he slides his glasses onto his nose. Harry shoves one hand out. “I’m Harry Potter. I’m an Auror, and once upon a time I happened to kill Lord Voldemort, although there’s a part of me that’s still convinced it was entirely a fortuitous accident.”

Draco hesitates, moving slowly as he bridges the distance between them to clasp Harry’s hand in his. “Draco Malfoy. Bookseller and trophy husband, and once upon a time I was a Death Eater although I assure you, that is long in my past now. I… I may have heard a rumor that you enjoy mysteries.”

“And spy novels.” Harry’s smile is bright. “We could go get breakfast and talk about those. I’m sure I could manage to tell you about some you haven’t read.”

“Likely I could do that same. Some people haven’t read anything properly magical.” Draco snorts softly.

“And some haven’t bothered to read the Muggle classics,” Harry teases in return, and Draco can’t stop looking at the way he seems so relaxed suddenly. As if this is important, and _good_ , and for a weird moment, Draco has hope that life isn’t entirely miserable.

He squashes the thought swiftly. There is no point getting caught up in impossibilities.

“Breakfast it is then,” he says, perhaps a little sharper than he intended. “Once I’ve cleaned up a bit, considering I am still wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

“Take all the time you need.” Harry slips from the room to give Draco privacy, but for the first time in a long while, Draco doesn’t actually feel _alone_.

#

Breakfast is filled with quiet conversation comparing Muggle and wizarding authors, sharing favorite stories and further recommendations. Harry asks the waitress for a pen and paper, and she comes back with scrap paper and an unfamiliar implement that has Draco looking at it curiously until Harry shows him how the pen works. Harry complains that the pen doesn’t write, and obtains a second one, leaving Draco with the first to toy with it. He finds it fascinating how something so simple could still be so very different from the quills and fountain pens with which he is familiar.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Harry says quietly as he transcribes their notes into two neat lists, one for each of them.

“Which part?” Draco arches one eyebrow. His plate is empty, picked clean of an overly large hot breakfast. All that remains is an orange, peeled and sectioned. He holds one bright orange wedge between his fingertips as he watches Harry.

There is a faint flush on Harry’s cheeks. “The part where I fell asleep in the bed last night. It was late, and you’d sat down and next thing I knew, you were unconscious. So I pulled off your shoes and I laid down, just for a moment before I got up to get things so I could kip on the couch.”

Draco had done an excellent job of putting the entire thing out of his mind, but Harry’s speech reminds him of the feel of Harry behind him, the warmth of another body and the comfort of that touch. He purses his lips and picks at the piece of orange. “It’s fine,” he says curtly. “You’ve only the one bed, and I didn’t mean to put you out of it.”

“I wouldn’t make you sleep on the sofa.” Harry looks horrified. “I can’t imagine that would be comfortable.”

“ _Nothing_ is comfortable these days.” Draco leans back, pressing fingertips into the small of his back, arching enough to press his belly forward as he groans softly. “Everything aches, and I’ve still got time to go before this child will be born. Besides, you can’t sleep on the sofa. You’re injured. You’re barely able to walk this morning.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder. “It’s just curse damage.”

“You should see a specialist.”

“I have.” Harry puts the pen down and rips the paper in half, nudging one part towards Draco. “I’ve paid for breakfast, so we likely ought to leave. If you’ll come into the Ministry with me, we can get you settled into a safe house, so you won’t have to worry about what Astoria—or rather Pucey and Flint—might try next.”

A safe house. For some reason, Draco had expected that after breakfast they would go back to Potter’s place and he would stay there for the time being, until this thing is settled. That Potter would continue to care for him personally.

But of course not. Draco is someone to be protected, a part of a case. A _job_. He nods quietly and tucks the scrap of paper in his pocket. “Of course. We should get that settled as soon as possible. I’m quite certain you’d like to have your place to yourself again.”

“The sooner we can capture Pucey and Flint, the sooner you’ll be safe.” Harry’s expression is blank, as guarded as if he were raised pureblood. “At least for now. We need better evidence so that we can bring Astoria in, but she’s almost as untouchable…”

“As any other pureblood of means,” Draco says dryly.

“I’m sorry that we have to do this to you over the holidays.”

Harry leverages himself up, moving more slowly than he did the day before. He leans heavily on his cane; the curse must be getting worse as it goes on, not better. Draco frowns. That sort of curse never means anything good for the recipient, and if Harry doesn’t have it taken care of soon, he could lose the use of his leg, or worse.

“The holidays are nothing special to me,” Draco says quietly, pushing himself to his own feet. He takes Harry’s arm under the guise of needing something to steady himself, but steadies Harry instead. “My mother treasures the social occasions, but I despise the times when I am taken out.” He stops, and Harry stumbles slightly with the abrupt change in motion. “Are my parents under any risk? Do you think they would attack them in order to get to me?”

“I’ll owl Ron to have him take them into protective custody as well,” Harry assures him. He shifts how they are standing together, settling his hand at the base of Draco’s back, and slowly they begin to move forward again.

The baby shifts, making walking awkward as they maneuver through the restaurant and into the sun outdoors. The day is crisp and cold, and Draco pulls his jacket close around him, wondering what the Muggles on the street see when they look at him. He gives Harry a moment, then offers his arm again, and lets him take care of Apparating them both to the entrance of the Ministry.

He is still reeling from the odd sensation of Apparition while pregnant when he sees the flash of bright light. Draco pushes at Harry, shoving them both out of the way. They tangle, going down in a heap of awkward limbs and Harry’s cane, and Draco cries out from the pain of his hip hitting the ground. He curls protectively around his belly while Harry tries to sit up, wand out.

In the next moment, everything is pain.

Draco’s body bows without him, arching back and arms thrown wide. He has no control over his limbs, no ability to do anything but scream as pain lances through him, cutting him open from the inside. He bleeds, he is sure of it, from the cuts of a thousand knives stabbing under his skin all at once.

He hears his name shouted, both _Draco!_ and _Malfoy!_ He tries to get his wand in his hand, tries to put out the fire that he has become, but he can’t. He struggles just to get his eyes open, feeling weight over him, leaning against his belly without pressing down. Harry is on his hands and knees, wand in his hand, and he fires something Draco doesn’t hear.

There is silence, and the pain fades to small licks of flame, still teasing his skin from his bones. He whines, unable to find words.

Fingers scrabble at him, trying to touch him everywhere, and Draco twists away, unable to take even that small touch.

“You’re going to be okay.”

Draco would love to believe that, but the fire is heating up again. He closes his eyes and lets the flames take him, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but it seems to be the right thing to say.

Then the heat becomes unbearable, and he lets it win.

#

_…much longer?…_

_…A few days at least. His body suffered significant trauma…_

_…Not physical, though…_

_…Other than the child, no. But we cannot say how it has affected his mind…_

There are pinpricks where Draco thinks his hand might be, sharp and bright, chaos in the silence he has created around him. He jerks his hand and hears a muffled noise, a renewed touch that hurts too much. He cries out, and the tears on his cheeks boil against his skin. He can’t stay here, so he retreats back into the darkness.

#

“Your son is beautiful, Draco.”

He recognizes the voice, traces it through the scattered pathways of his mind to put a name to it. Potter. No, _Harry_. That is Harry who speaks, who murmurs so softly as if he might disturb something with his words.

His _son_.

He remembers words then, about his _child_ being affected, and a knot of panic twists around his heart. But no… no… his son _is_ beautiful. _Is_. That is present tense, and Draco relaxes to know that.

“His hair is so pale, just like yours. At first I thought he didn’t have any hair at all—some babies are bald—but no, it’s there, just soft and fine. They said it might grow back in darker, like Astoria’s, but I don’t think so.”

 _Astoria_.

He sees her in his mind, her wand raised, lips twisted into a brutal smirk. He hears the incantation, sees the swirl of magic in slow motion now, wrapping around him from his feet to his toes. It twists tightly, slipping under his skin and loosening it like knives flaying him open, and he screams until his voice goes hoarse.

“Draco!” 

People moving, feet shuffling, the noise of hurried voices and Harry being pushed away and told to care for… something… Draco doesn’t know what, all he knows is that he feels the cold bliss of magic over him like a blanket, and he relaxes again, muscles easing knot by knot.

He can drag in a breath and when his chest rises, words mutter around him.

He could open his eyes.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He’s not ready.

“I’m here,” he whispers, and his voice is low and hoarse, scraped out through a throat that’s raw.

A rush of movement and the sound of a chair moving over the floor. A hand tangles with his and it doesn’t hurt. It’s warm and comfortable, the fingers a little rough as they press in against him. “I’m here, too,” Harry whispers. “You’re safe.”

It’s funny how Draco believes him. He tries to smile before the spell takes hold fully and he drifts away again.

#

A child’s shrill cry draws him out of the darkness, eyes flickering open instinctively to see shapes in the dark of the room. He feels sharper, mind cataloguing what he sees quickly. The way Harry sits curled in a chair, a small bundle cradled in his arms, a bottle held just so. The soft, hungry sounds of an infant suckling. Draco blinks, but nothing changes; Harry is still there, holding Draco’s son.

He’s in St. Mungo’s, and his body aches from head to toe, as if someone beat him carefully with a stick, ensuring that no place was missed. He tries to move, but pain shoots through him and he groans. Harry looks over, bright green eyes wide, reflecting moonlight in the room.

“Draco.”

“Is that my son?”

The bundle in Harry’s arms seems far too tiny to be real, a handful of a child rather than an armful. But even while Harry moves, the infant never stops suckling at his bottle, anxious for food, and Draco feels a sense of pride in how strong he is. “It’s too soon,” he says quietly.

“They didn’t have a choice, after Astoria cursed you.” Harry pulls the chair with him with one toe, then ignores it altogether in favor of sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’d give him to you, but your arms are going to be weak for a while, yet. You’re lucky to be alive at all. What were you thinking?”

Draco shakes his head. “I wasn’t. I saw… I just moved. It was an incredibly stupid thing to do and I’ll blame you, Potter, for somehow removing rationality from my mind.” He struggles and manages to push himself upright, shoving his own pillow behind his back. He is weak and exhausted, but it feels good to be upright and conscious. “Was she the only one there?”

“Pucey and Flint are still out there somewhere, but Ron’s on their trail. The case has been re-opened, and Ron’s got a new partner working with him on it.” Harry edges slightly closer, and Draco can see the child now, pale grey eyes staring back at him solemnly.

“And Astoria?” Draco reaches out, one finger lightly touching the soft skin of his son’s cheek.

“In custody and awaiting trial. She’ll see life in Azkaban.”

Draco snorts. “Hardly likely, Potter.”

“ _Harry_.”

Draco meets his gaze briefly. “Fine. _Harry_.” He looks away then, focusing instead on the miracle of a child in Harry’s arms. “She tried to kill a reformed Death Eater who has no standing in society, Harry. The Wizengamot has little use for me.”

“She attempted the murder of her husband and potentially her unborn son, all to gain control over the Malfoy coffers,” Harry says bluntly. “She’ll get life. You do not deserve to die, Draco.”

“I didn’t say I did.”  He arches one eyebrow and huffs a sigh, shaking his head. “You realize that she was a guarantee for my freedom. I _had_ to marry as a part of my commuted sentence.”

“You’re not going to Azkaban, either.” The infant lets the bottle slip from his lips, his eyes closed as he breathes softly in sleep, and Harry sets the bottle aside. He touches Draco’s arm, fingertips warm against cool skin. “You’ve been under observation for a time, Draco. Not by me.” Harry’s mouth twists, and Draco wonders what he isn’t saying. “We have a team that keeps tabs on ex-Death Eaters. You. Your family. People like Flint and Pucey and the Montgomerys. We know who is dangerous and who is actually reformed. You don’t need to stay married to Astoria in order to keep your freedom. In fact, I recommend that it might be best if you don’t. You should make your own place. Stop letting them define you.”

“I do _not_ —”

“You do.” Harry’s jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth tight. “Not entirely, no. You have your place at the bookstore, and you don’t attend all the social events. But you do _care_ and you let her keep you in a closet, taking you out like some toy to parade around when she feels like it.”

“I didn’t know you felt so strongly about my social life.” The words come out clipped and tart.

“I care about your _happiness_.” Harry tugs at Draco’s arm roughly, repositioning him so that the blanket and the crook of his elbow make a cradle. He gently places the infant there, making sure the head is supported. Then he wedges in close enough to offer Draco’s elbow a place to brace, so he won’t grow too tired. “I care that you’re safe, and that you’re not miserable.”

Draco hears the words, and he can’t quite parse how he feels about it, not now, not when his son is finally in his arms, sleeping peacefully rather than kicking his kidneys. He traces a finger over the tip of the tiny nose, then over the slightly open mouth, blowing bubbles in his sleep.

“He needs a name.”

“Scorpius.” Without Astoria standing by, Draco is free to choose the name he wants. “It’s a traditional Black name.” A slow smirk starts. “And Astoria hated it.”

“I assume she is his biological mother?” Harry’s fingers tangle with Draco’s briefly as he smooths those baby-fine strands back from Scorpius’s face. The baby makes a small huff of familiarity, and Draco wonders just how long he has been unconscious for Harry to bond so well with his son.

“She is, which means yes, she has a claim for custody, should she be freed. I was bound by duty to provide her with an heir that would be linked to the Malfoy fortune, and this is that son.” It could still so easily be taken from him, somehow.

“We’ll make sure you are granted sole custody. After all, you carried the child, and she tried to kill you. I’m pretty sure we can call it extenuating circumstances.” Harry goes silent for a long moment, his hand falling away to touch Draco’s knee, resting there. “Did you want children?”

Draco hears the echo of their earlier conversation in the question. “I didn’t,” he says frankly. “Not yet. But Astoria insisted, and I believe we can both see now _why_ she did so. However, I must admit… I want this one now. I carried him, and I have been looking forward to his birth. To having a son, and to raising him into the world I should like him to see.”

He has been looking forward to having a child to love unconditionally, and who would love him in return. He has been looking forward to seeing what might happen when he raises a child, how different it could be.

His arm is tired, starting to shake, and Harry takes Scorpius from him, cradling him easily.

“How long was I unconscious?”

“Three days, although for the first we were mostly concerned with stabilizing you after the curse and after Scorpius’s birth,” Harry tells him. “It hasn’t been a good few days for you. Scorpius is stronger than he looks, though, even though he was premature. I think he’s like his father.”

“You have a far higher opinion of his father than I had expected,” Draco says dryly.

“I think you’d be surprised.” Harry looks away, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “You should rest. I’ll get Scorpius settled into his bassinet, and I’ll wake you up when he needs you. We’re getting on all right, but he needs his father now, I know. So rest while he’s sleeping, okay?”

Draco isn’t ready to sleep, but he can’t fight his body. He lies back, watching Harry with Scorpius and trying to let the tension in the pit of his belly ease. Watching the dark head bent over the fair child makes him smile, and he slowly lets go, and lets exhaustion steal him away.

#

The next week is a series of frustrations as Draco forces his muscles to rehabilitate, to relearn simple things like holding a fork without pain, and holding his child long enough to feed him. When he is tired, he relinquishes the child to Harry, who remains awkward when walking, but moves more easily every day. Harry admits that the doctors were able to look further into his own curse with the knowledge of what was done to Draco, and that he is finally healing as well.

Scorpius is a week old when Harry comes in as Draco is feeding his son, the infant sucking hungrily at the bottle.

“Do you know what today is?” He stands with his hands in his pockets, head cocked and hair mussed from the wind outside. Draco doesn’t know where Harry has been sleeping. Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night and Harry is curled in a chair in his room, and other times, like now, it looks as if he has just come inside.

Draco shakes his head. “Hopefully the day on which I shall be released and able to go home with Scorpius.”

“Potentially,” Harry agrees. “Although I’ve heard you still have some difficulties that need to be addressed.”

It makes Draco feel weak that he can’t care for his son on his own. When he thinks of returning to his home— _Astoria’s_ home—he dreads dealing with the size of the house and figuring everything out when sometimes his limbs are still weak and aching. But at the same time, he is stubborn and refuses to accept that it cannot be done. “I’ll be fine,” he insists.

“It’s Christmas.” Harry pulls his hands from his pockets as he sinks to sit on the edge of the bed, staring at something cradled in his hand. “Technically, I should be at the Weasleys place now. They invited me—you were right about that—even though Ginny and I aren’t together anymore. I wasn’t going to go, but they’re still the most family I have.”

“And yet, here you are.” Draco nudges at him slightly with his knees. “Go. Be with your family. I’ll be fine, Potter.”

The look Harry gives him is stricken, green eyes shadowed. “ _Harry_ ,” he insists. “And _yes_ , we are friends. At least I’d like to hope we are, after all that’s gone between us. We’re certainly not enemies.” He turns over the package in his hands and thrusts it at Draco, brightly colored wrapping with a ribbon binding it. “Here.”

“How gracious.” Draco takes it in his free hand, awkwardly trying to juggle child and gift until Harry takes Scorpius easily and leaves Draco able to use both hands. He slits the paper with a cautious fingertip, eyes going wide as he sees what is hidden within. “The latest Thistlethwaite mystery. A proof copy. This isn’t due to be released for months.”

“I called in a favor or three.” Harry shrugs one shoulder, although there is a hint of a smile lifting his lips. “Look at the bookmark.”

Draco expects to find a signature within, something from the author himself, but instead the bookmark is a plain piece of parchment, cut to size and with a key spellotaped to it. He frowns slightly, mouth opening, but he has no words. He’s not entirely sure he knows what this is, and can’t find the courage to ask.

“It’s my flat.” Harry’s voice comes out in a rush. “You need someplace to stay until things are settled, and you don’t have any place that’s your own. Just until you get back on your feet. And I’ll be there while you’re gaining strength, so I can help with Scorpius. They won’t want to let you go home if you’ll be alone, not weak as you are, and I know you’re ready to get out of here. So let this be my gift to you.”

“You can’t save me.”

“I can _try_.” Harry summons the bassinet and settles Scorpius into it before he turns back to Draco, moving closer. He raises one hand and Draco stays perfectly still as Harry touches his cheek lightly with his fingertips. “I can save you if you let me, Draco. If you _want_ me to. And you’ll probably save me along the way.”

His heart is racing, hammering loud and so hard it aches in his chest. Draco fights to force his thoughts into coherence, to find words to speak his mind. “What is it you want from me?”

Harry laughs, a slightly strangled sound. “Whatever you want to give to me, Draco, and nothing more than that.”

“Well then.” Draco captures Harry’s hand, grips it tightly as if he could lose it altogether if he were to let go. “We shall have to figure that out as we go along.”

“Is that a yes?”

“As long as the healer lets me out of this bloody place, it is indeed a yes.” Draco arches both eyebrows, breathing as evenly as he can. This is different. This is change. This is a step in a direction he never knew he might take, and he has no idea where he could end up. But it doesn’t terrify him, and for the first time in years, he feels as if he might be free. “I haven’t got you anything for Christmas.”

“I think I can forgive that. Hard to shop from bed. Besides…” Harry grins. “I think I’m getting what I want as it is.”

Draco snorts. “Of course, Harry. You’ve always wanted me to yourself. I always knew that a Malfoy was the best gift anyone could possibly receive for the holidays.”

When Harry laughs, Scorpius sputters and snorts in his sleep, and Draco finds himself smiling as well. He breathes easily at last, and wonders if this is what hope feels like.

#

They make sure that Scorpius is tucked into his baby chair and the spell is set to levitate it close to Draco, never more than a few feet away at most. They both hold onto the handle as Harry twists them in place, Apparating them home.

The tug through the navel is more than Draco expected on the heels of the curse and childbirth, and his legs crumple as he stumbles forward. Harry’s arms go around him, lifting him easily.

They go across the threshold like that, Draco cradled in Harry’s arms, the baby seat drifting close behind them both. Harry kicks the door shut and as he settles Draco on his feet once more, it only seems natural for them to sway together, Draco holding onto his shoulders.

It only takes a moment to lean in, brush his lips against Harry’s curious what it would be like.

The sound Harry makes is a low moan, fingers gentle against Draco’s face, cradling him in place for a slow, sweet kiss.

Draco breaks it, stepping back carefully. He doesn’t say anything; his heart was in that kiss, just for a moment. Wherever it goes from here, it can’t be worse than where he was. He _wants_ this, and he thinks Harry wants it too. One step at a time.

“Welcome home,” Harry murmurs, and Draco smiles, because yes. That sounds right.

He’s finally home.


End file.
